A Single Second Chance
by Booth's-Brennan
Summary: Sicily is an abused child contemplating suicide. Will she go through with it or will she get a second chance at life?
1. Chapter 1

_**Chapter 1**_

_A handful of pills, _Sicily thought to herself, eyeing the handful of little white pills she had cupped in her left hand. Closing her fingers over them so that they were hidden from view she continued to talk to herself. _Come on, Sicily, it's not that that many. You can do it. Just put them in your mouth, get a drink, and swallow, you can do it._

Closing her emerald green eyes, she took a deep breath, attempting to mentally prepare herself for what she was planning to do. A full out battle was being waged between two parts of her mind. One, the rational side, was trying to convince her not to give up, to keep fighting. _Sure, things were- are- bad now, but they have to get better eventually, _the small voice in her head protested. _God never gives you anything that you can't handle._

_ Sure He doesn't. _The pessimistic voice countered back. _Do you really still trust him? He took Danny, Caylee and Haylei all within hours of each other in that senseless accident, or are you forgetting that? _

Danny Maple, Caylee Jordan, and Haylei Dunnigan had all been killed in a car accident almost exactly one month before. The foursome, along with Haylei's boyfriend of six months, Garrett, and Caylee's of nine, Peyton, had been on their way home from in Danny's SUV late one night. The torrential rain that was pouring down had made it hard to see more than a few feet in front of them, even with the headlights on full power. That, coupled with the alcohol they had consumed, made driving a very bad and unsafe idea. But, as it has a tendency of doing, the alcohol had clouded their judgment, so they all got into the car and headed home. About ten miles from their destination, Danny had jerked the wheel to avoid a large branch that the storm had blown into the road, and the SUV's tires couldn't keep their grip on the rain-soaked road, and the car had swerved into the oncoming lane, directly into the path of an oncoming car.

The family in the other car; a mother, father and their two young children, along with Danny, who had been driving, were all killed instantly.

Sicily, who had been the only one in Danny's car who had wearing a seatbelt, survived the crash with only a concussion, a dislocated shoulder, and four broken ribs.

Haylei hit her head hard on the window, and the resulting head trauma had put her in a coma from which she never woke up from.

Caylee had a collapsed lung as a result of extreme pressure and died in the surgery to repair it when her heart stopped because of the amount of blood lost.

The other two boys managed to survive the accident with nothing but a few cuts that required stitches.

_Remember, Sicily, _the optimistic voice was back again. _He will never give you anything you can't handle._

"Yeah, right," she said, reopening her hand and gazing down at the supposed escape she held. Could she really do it?

Just as she was contemplating that particular question, a soft knock was heard on the closed door.

"Cissy?" a small voice asked. "Can I come in? I gotta pee really bad."

Sighing, she called back, "Yeah, just a sec, okay?" before stuffing the pills in her pocket, unlocking the door and opening it.

The child standing outside in the hall was her little sister, six year old Carley, who looked up at her big sister, her blue eyes wide. "What were you doing? You were in there a long time," she said, extending the "oo" in "long" for several seconds. "Are you sick?" she asked, before wiggling past her.

"No, squirt, I'm not sick. I just needed some quiet."

"In the bathroom?" the child questioned, eyeing her hero from her perch on the toilet.

Sicily gave her a small, sad smile. "Yeah, in the bathroom."

"Oh. I see, I think," Carley said, as Sicily slipped out of the bathroom and shut the door behind her, headed for her other sanctuary; the secluded corner of the attic where she had created a haven many years before.

Flopping down on the pastel tie-dyed beanbag, the sixteen year old pulled a couple sheets of paper, a pencil, and a book out of the place that she had hidden them, and began to write something to her friend, Sydnee.

_Sydnee,_

_I just want to say thank you for everything. You have been amazing, but I'm simply ready to just end it all, to just leave all the pain, guilt and confusion behind. Ever since Danny, Caylee, and Haylei died, I've felt like it was my fault , it had been my idea to go to Cale's party that night, he didn't want to go._

_Somehow, through everything, I've always believed that once in heaven tangible things don't mean that much anymore. Well, I'm ready to leave all that behind._

_I'm sorry for everything. I can't do it anymore. I'm sorry if I hurt you._

Sighing again, she re-read the letter, signed her name, then folded it into fourths and wrote "Sydnee" on the front. Then she pulled the other sheet closer and wrote some more, this one more a diary or journal entry.

_I hear your loud screaming__  
><em>_As I scramble down under my duvet.__  
><em>_Your angry, hateful voice is getting louder.__  
><em>_I try to cover my ears._

_Your footsteps stop outside my door.__  
><em>_suddenly, the door opens up.__  
><em>_I shake in terror in the dark__  
><em>_As you shove me violently down to the floor._

_You start to yell at me,__  
><em>_Verbally abuse me.__  
><em>_Learning a long time ago not to talk back__  
><em>_I only listen, intimidated and terrified._

_A sudden blow on my cheek interrupts my silent prayers__  
><em>_Another blow on my back__  
><em>_My legs, my head, my arms__  
><em>_Stop hurting me!_

_I cry out, hurt and traumatized__  
><em>_In agony I howl.__  
><em>_The only thing I get in return is__  
><em>_Another strike for being too loud._

_Help me, someone!__  
><em>_Don't lie about my injuries.__  
><em>_Help me, anyone!__  
><em>_Take me away from this nightmare I'm in._

_Help is nowhere in sight__  
><em>_While this child is being slammed__  
><em>_Against the wall.__  
><em>_Where are you? Why aren't you helping me?_

_All I can hear is the sound of my own bone breaking.__  
><em>_I can taste blood in my mouth.__  
><em>_Daddy yanks me by my hair,__  
><em>_Dragging me down the stairs._

_Help me, someone,__  
><em>_Help me._

_Under the light I can see my scars__  
><em>_My legs twisted__  
><em>_My black-and-blue arms__  
><em>_My ears ringing._

_I look around, whimpering__  
><em>_As Daddy cries out, "Shut up,__  
><em>_you bad girl! Neighbors will hear!"__  
><em>_I cut short, scared to death._

_As I lie here on the cold floor__  
><em>_who is to rescue me?_

_I start to cry loudly.__  
><em>_Knowing I have got to stop__  
><em>_I bite my lips._

_Too late,__  
><em>_Daddy comes back.__  
><em>_He is hurting me again,__  
><em>_He twists my arm behind my back._

_Anyone, __  
><em>_Help me!_

_I slowly drift away__  
><em>_Everything seems so blurry and distant.__  
><em>_Maybe I am dying,__  
><em>_Maybe that would be better._

_I wake up the next morning,__  
><em>_The sun shining on my face.__  
><em>_Doctor's face clouds with concern.__  
><em>_I nod as he asks if I'm okay._

_But I'm not okay,__  
><em>_Daddy's there!__  
><em>_Instead of the angry face I saw last night,__  
><em>_He puts on a mask of happiness._

_"I'm so glad you're awake!__  
><em>_Let's celebrate!"__  
><em>_The doctor pats me on the head__  
><em>_Walking away._

_I try to call to him, to ask him to come back__  
><em>_Desperately I try to say,__  
><em>_"Don't leave me alone with him."__  
><em>_But my lips are too sore and I cannot speak._

_A short while later I am better...__  
><em>_Healthy enough to go home.__  
><em>_I plead to the nurse with my begging eyes,__  
><em>_I am too scared to tell them what's going on._

_I have no choice but to follow Daddy,__  
><em>_As he grabs my hand tightly, leading the way.__  
><em>_No, I want to stay!__  
><em>_Leave me alone!_

_I turn back, but nobody notices me,__  
><em>_My hurt and battered body.__  
><em>_Returning back to where I was harmed__  
><em>_Back I go._

_Help me, anyone__._

Writing was her escape from the pain in the physical world. When her dad hurt her and she couldn't cry, she'd come up here and write about it, letting her feelings- the real ones, not the ones that she faked so that nobody would know that anything was wrong- came out. On paper, she bared her soul, safe from pain.

How she had managed to survive those six years since her mother had died, she wasn't sure, but she knew that Carley had a lot to do with it.

Unbidden, memories began to haut her.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Chapter Two- Six years previous**_

The sound of glass breaking sent a ten year old Sicily scrambling under the covers just as there was the cry of one year old Carley in the next room.

"Make that baby be quiet!" her dad yelled from downstairs, and turned the tv up louder. His words were slightly slurred, and she could tell that he was drunk. Going into Carley's room, she desperately prayed that the baby was just fussy, or even dirty, but not hungry. She didn't want to go downstairs and face her dad.

Paul Jamison was what was called a mean drunk. He would break things, yell at Sicily, get mad at her for the little things, or beat her. Just a few days before, he had shoved her into a wooden bookshelf because she hadn't gotten him his refill drink fast enough. She'd missed four days of school waiting for the bruise on the side of her face to go down to the sickly yellow color that it was now.

She would take any punishment that he could dish out as long as it protected Carley. That baby meant the world to her.

Now, standing beside her crib, she was looking into the face of pure innocence. Startling blue eyes, set deep in her small, pale face, gazed up at her from under jet black hair.

"Up?" she asked hopefully, extending her arms to Sicily.

Smiling to herself, she picked her up, and the one year old's thumb went back into her mouth almost immediately.

"Blankie?" she asked, sleepily, and her big sister handed her the white blanket with baby circus animals on it that she'd had since she was born. As the two of them settled into the old well- used rocking chair that stood in one corner of the room, the baby had three more questions. Well, two more questions and a statement.

"Dada mad," she stated simply.

"Yes, baby, Daddy's mad."

"At Carley or Cissy?"

"No, baby."

"Oh. Story?"

"A princess one or an animal one?"

She thought for a moment. "Pwincess," she finally decided.

Sicily smiled, she had already known that Carley would want a princess story, she always did. Beginning to slowly rock back and forth in the old rocker, she made up a story about two young princesses named Mercy and Kassia, who lived with their parents, the queen and king.

The baby was asleep within minutes, and there in that creaky old rocker, she felt what her mother must have felt ten years ago while holding her the same way; a deep, undying love and desire to protect.

_Where are you when we need you, mama? Why did you have to die and leave us alone? _Unbidden, tears leapt to her eyes as she thought about her mother. Belle Jamison had been killed in a car wreck when her car skidded on a patch of ice and hit a tree.

Several minutes later, after making sure Carley was sound asleep, she gently placed her back in the crib just as her father's angry yell split the air.

"Girl! Get down here!"

Mentally counting to ten to calm down, she shut the door and went downstairs. He met her at the bottom of the stairs, red- faced and livid.

"What took you so long?"

She knew that if she answered that she would be punished, but she also knew that if she said nothing, she would also be punished; so she chose to say nothing and was rewarded with a backhanded slap across her face.

It felt as if she had been hit with a shovel. She saw lights pop in front of her eyes, and almost cried. Lifting her hand, she touched her burning cheek; it burned red hot, and she traced the area with her fingers.

After she did what he wanted and he finally let her go back to bed, it was nearing midnight.

As she shut her bedroom door gently behind her, the emotions of the past few hours suddenly hit her, almost like a piano falling from the sky. She felt crushed by the weight, and felt as though she couldn't draw any air into her lungs, and slid down the side of the door, sobbing. She leaned into the door and pressed her face into her hands, knees drawn up to her chest letting the tears come freely. Her shaking rattled the door and she knew that if he heard it she would be punished, but she couldn't stop, so she moved to the bed, burying her face in the pillow and wailing into it, trying to muffle the noise. She couldn't stop, she felt possessed by fear, anger, and outrage. Mostly fear. She trembled and sobbed, soaking through her pillow.

Sicily cried until there were no tears left to cry, then continued to sob dryly into her pillow, lungs hitching for breath, her body wracked with a host of incredibly strong, uncomfortable feelings. Before her mother died, she had never been so much as spanked, but now she found herself fearing for her physical well-being. It was a new fear, one that wrenched her guts into knots and pressed her lungs for air. It crawled under her skin and into her brain, turning over and over in her thoughts. It touched the back of her neck and ran its fingers down her spine, blew against her face and hissed in the darkness. If she kept the light on, she saw it crawling in the shadows. If she turned the light off, the shadows found their way into her head. She could not find refuge.

She lay awake for as long as possible, willing herself not to fall asleep. At first, it wasn't that difficult- it was if she was lying on a bed of nails, rigid and alert, waiting for alarms to sound. As the night progressed, though, she began to feel an overwhelming physical and emotional exhaustion that eventually took over, forcing her into a fitful sleep. Every few minutes, she roused herself into consciousness, afraid that she would be face to face with him again.

A few hours later, she awoke, just as the sun was beginning to rise. She shot up in bed, fear from the night before flooding her. When she found no immediate source of danger, though, she relaxed a bit and brought her hand up to her face. Her cheek was swollen and still warm.

She crawled out of bed and cracked her door, peering down the hall. He was still asleep, so she walked down the hall to the bathroom and flicked the light on, eyeing her reflection in the mirror. Her cheek was defiantly swollen and still pink, obvious finger marks streaked across the side of her face. As she surveyed the damage, she heard the familiar creak of his bed, and she froze, eyes glued to the mirror as her face blanched, making the hand print look even brighter red than before.

Back in her room, emotions still running high, she dug through the assorted junk in her desk drawers until she found what she was looking for; a pink disposable razor. The once white pad was stained red with blood. Without her permission, a Bible verse that her mother had taught her jumped into her mind_. Don't you know that you yourselves are God's temple_ _and that God's Spirit lives in you? If anyone destroys God's temple, God will destroy him, for God's temple is sacred and you are that temple._ When she was younger, she actually believed in God, but now she wasn't so sure she believed in Him. She had to find a escape from the multitude of emotions that flooded her. She had lost of what semblance of control she had, and she had to get get it back, one way or another.

Searching her wrists for a place that wasn't bruised or cut, she placed the blade on a small patch of clear skin and regained that control. There was always a chance that she would push too hard and not be able to stop the bleeding, but the pain was the only thing that she coould control.

She cleaned herself up and got dressed, thankful that it was cold so that she could wear long sleeves, then went to get the baby. Fifteen minutes later, both she and Carley were ready. Both her school and the babysitter were only a couple of blocks away, and her dad usually dropped them off, but on days like today when he was hungover, they walked. So, after bundling up and making sure that they had everything that they needed, they left the house.

She arrived at J.R Dury Middle School just as the warning bell sounded. After hurridly cramming her stuff into her locker, she hurried to her math class where her best friend, Sydnee, met her.

Sicily and Sydnee were complete opposites, not only in looks, but also in attitude. Sicily had medium tan skin, emerald green eyes, and straight black hair that reached past her shoulders. She was the shy and insecure one.

Sydnee, on the other hand, had looks that boasted of growing up in California. Long, sun streaked blond hair fell almost to her hips, and her bright blue eyes always seemed to be smiling, her skin a dark tan. Where her best friend was shy, Sydnee was confident.

Somehow, the two complimented each other.

"What happened to your face?" she asked, almost as soon as Sicily walked up.

"Nothing. Come on, let's go."


	3. Chapter 3

**_Chapter 3- Six Months Later_**

The students all sat forward in their desks, hunched over math tests of varying completion. All of them except for Sicily-the only A+ average in the class. She sat back in her seat, her nose buried _To Kill a Mockingbird_, reading to herself while the other students scrambled to finish a test she had turned in ten minutes ago. She could never say with absolute certainty, but she was fairly sure she had gotten an A—she always did. The bell rang, tinny and echoing, and the students groaned.

"Alright, pencils down, turn them in—that means you, Peter, don't think I don't see you back there," a short woman with long, wavy grey hair and broad bifocals shouted over the quiet roar of scraping chairs, fluttering papers, and zipping bags. The students filed up to the front desk, laying their papers face-down on the desk and giving the woman looks of despondence in varying degrees. "Oh come on, it wasn't that bad," she said to the masses as they passed, chuckling to herself. Almost seeming to take joy from their pain and suffering.

Sicily finished off the paragraph she had been reading, then stuck her bookmark—a torn-off piece of lined paper—between the pages, and placed the book into her well-worn backpack. The bottom of the backpack was lined with duct tape inside and out from years of use, hardly holding up to the weight of the several Advanced Placement textbooks she carried around daily. As she passed by the front desk, the grey-haired woman spoke.

"Sicily, hold up a second," she up, confused.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Malcay, did I do something wrong?" she asked. The woman shook her head, patting the edge of the desk as if to beckon her closer.

"No, no, you're fine," she said. "Well actually, that's what I wanted to ask you."

"Ask me what?" Sicily asked, still confused. If this woman didn't hurry up, she was going to be late to AP Biology, which would tick her and her teacher off both.

"How you're holding up," Mrs. Malcay said. "I know your mother died not too long ago, and it must have been rough on you."

"I'm fine, Mrs. Malcay," she said. "Thank you."

"Okay," Mrs. Malay said, with the tone that knows there is much more to the story but does not pry for prying's sake. "Let me write you a late slip," she said, taking out a green pad of paper and filling in the appropriate places.

"Thank you," Sicily said, taking the slip. As she made her way towards the door, she heard Mrs. Malay's voice call out to her.

"If you ever need to talk about anything, Sicily, I'm here." She pretended not to hear and kept walking, out of the classroom and down the hall towards the Bio lab.

Sicily scuttled into the classroom and closed the heavy wooden door quietly behind her, grabbing a pair of lab goggles from the box on the edge of Mr. Riley's desk and setting her late slip on his attendance folder. The class was congregated in the back of the lab, surrounding a table that she knew was covered in dissection trays. The room was not filled with the rancorous stench of formaldehyde like it usually was on dissection days, though—instead, it reeked of dead fish.

She dropped her bag on the floor next to her lab partner's belongings and merged into the crowd surrounding the table, hardly having to push past anyone to see—not that she would; it wasn't in her nature to be pushy. Almost as if a compensation for her shy demeanor, she was still several inches taller than most of her classmates, and would stay that way until college.

"Glad you could join us,Sicily," Mr. Riley said as he plopped a gooey dead squid, about a foot long including tentacles, onto a student's tray. He served them like Happy Meals, the students forming a rough line with their empty trays in hand.

"Sorry, Mrs. Malcay wanted to speak to me," she explained. He smiled.

"It's fine, I knew if you were late on dissection day you'd have a good reason," he said. "Especially since today they're fresh, straight off the truck from the coast!" She found her place in line and took her squid, returning to the lab table where her partner slouched on her stool, looking squeamish.

"Do you want to start, or should I?"Sicilyasked, pulling on a pair of disposable latex gloves. The girl took one look at the squid and blanched, turning away.

"You can start, finish, whatever you want, I'm not touchin' that thing," she said andSicilyshrugged.

"Suit yourself," she said, taking the blade in hand and with the deft precision of someone with much more medical training, cut into the cephalopod's surprisingly tough mantle, starting at the funnel and slicing upward. She cut all the way up the body, spreading the mantle and eyeing the interior. The intestines were enclosed in the caecum, on top of which lay the ink sac. She carefully set at removing the ink sac, cutting it away from the intestines gently as to avoid puncturing either organ. She removed each of the squid's internal organs in turn, following the lab hand-out procedure to a T.

That was what she liked about science—the procedure. No matter where you were, you could count on science to be procedural, to follow a set pattern and, in general, not deviate. Avogadro's number was the same in every language in the world, and during cell mitosis a cell would split the same way every time, regardless of your age, gender, race, or nationality. When you couldn't count on anything else, you could count on science. It was firm but fluid, strict but giving, constant and yet surprising. It was stability, and this squid proved it—every squid in the room had the same internal organs, the same beaks and gills and ink sacs, invariably. They had been that way for thousands of years and would stay that way until Jesus came. A squid was a squid, was a squid. Forever.

Sicily completed the lab and then respectfully disposed of the creature's body parts, not feeling sympathetic towards the dead animal but recognizing that it was at one point a living thing and every living thing was valuable because they had been created by God. She drew a detailed sketch of the creature's insides, copying that sketch into her partner's lab book while she quietly vomited into a trashcan in the back. The bell rang entirely too soon, signaling a release for lunch, and Sicily hung back while the other students flooded out of the room, adding extra details to the diagram in her composition notebook.

"Sicily, you can go to lunch, you know," Mr. Riley said, looking over her shoulder at her work. She cringed, still not entirely comfortable with men being in such close proximity, but forced herself to relax—this was Mr. Riley, her scientific guru. He was as dangerous as a waterfly.

"I know," she said. "I just want to finish this."

"Your diagrams are always so detailed," Mr. Riley commented. "I appreciate all the extra time you devote to accuracy."

"Thank you," she said. "I just think it's important to get all the facts right, is all."

"The mark of a scientific mind," Mr. Riley said. "You'd be surprised how many drawings I get of cephalopods with smiley faces on them! Adorable, but certainly not an empirical observation—a squid, with no lips or teeth, cannot smile."

"That's true," she agreed, smiling herself. She closed the composition notebook and slipped it into her bag, depositing the lab goggles in the box on Mr. Riley's desk on her way out the door.

"Sicily," he called out as she crossed over the threshold of the door. She backtracked.

"Yes?" she asked.

"Really good work," he said.

"Thanks," she said, nodding. He smiled and waved her off, and she left.

As she headed down the hall towards the cafeteria, she became aware of footsteps behind her. She looked back and saw a group of girls walking behind her, seeming to talk amongst themselves. She shrugged and continued walking, but soon began hearing peculiar sounds coming from their general direction. Coughs began to take the sound of words, and not kind ones.

"Geek," one girl hacked out, causing the others to giggle shrilly. Siclily ignored them, but her burning ears betrayed her emotions.

"Dweeb," the other coughed loudly, and very decipherably, causing the others to titter even more loudly. She swallowed, keeping her chin up and determined to ignore them. They, unfortunately, made that very difficult.

"Freak," another one coughed again, hardly masking the insult behind the muffled noise.

"She might not look like such a freak if she had some cute clothes… cute hair… cute face… I guess if she was just cute," one of the girls, Mia, said.

"Freakazoid, cute? Get out!" Another girl, Emily, laughed derisively, shaking her head and narrowing her eyes. "She's only half-cute behind those stupid lab goggles, when you can't see the other half of her face!" The girls shrieked in laughter.

Their words stung, like salt rubbed into open lashes. It was true, her clothes were hand-me-downs, and she had yet to discover make-up or hair products and nobody ever saw much of her face for it being buried in a book most of the time… but she wasn't _ugly_, was she?

"I don't think she's ugly," the fourth girl in the group, Kylie, said, as if having heard Sicily's thoughts. "After all, you can dress a _dog_ up in a sweater and it won't look half-bad!" Their shrieks turned into howls of laughter, reverberating up and down the hallway. She began to back away slowly from the group, taking a few steps before turning and running. Her shoes squeaked against the linoleum floor and she heard them calling after her, hooting and screeching with laughter.

Sicily rounded the corner and found the closest bathroom, locking herself into a stall and promptly exploding into hot tears. She bawled into her hands, occasionally pulling a wad of toilet paper off of the roll and blowing her nose into it. She leaned back against the wall, sliding down it and wrapping her arms around her knees, and peered through the crack in the stall door.

This is how Sydnee found her thirty minutes alter.

"Sicily, let me in," she said, knocking on the up, unlocking the door, and Sydnee joined her in the small space, rubbing her back as she cried.

They remained in the bathroom for the rest of the day. Girls passed in and out, living in a world all their own, and the two girls caught pieces of their conversations.

_"Tony asked me if I wanted to go to the movies with him but I don't know if I should, you know his reputation…"_

_"… and then she was like, all in my face about it and I was just like, Mom, chill out, it's not what it looks like…"_

_"Do you have a tampon? I didn't think I was gonna start today but I did, and you know how that nurse looks at you if you ask for a tampon and not a pad…"_

_"This shade of lip gloss is too pink…"_

Could she ever fit in? Could she ever _belong?_


	4. Chapter 4

**_Chapter 4- Present Day_**

She knew that some people, mostly Sydnee and another friend named Grace, would disapprove of what she was planning on doing, but in all actuality, she was almost beyond caring anymore. She just wanted it to be gone.

Leaving Carley behind would be the hardest thing, because she knew that when she left, he would turn his twisted affections on the little torn; protect Carley and stay, or save herself and leave?

As she was thinking, the pointer finger of her right hand unconsciously traced the two scars on the inside of her left wrist. The two scars were the width of a razor blade and just a bit longer; the physical evidence that she had tried to do this before.

She had been a freshman in high school, and was tired of being told that she couldn't do anything right. Also, around this same time she'd had her first boyfriend and breakup: fifteen year old Kyle had been like honey to her chapped soul, slowly softening the hard heart and showing her what love could be. However, happily ever after was too good to last, and they mutually agreed that it would be better if they separated.[

Kyle Martin was one of the two friends that she had made that year, seventeen year old Grace Dixon was the surprised that Grace- pretty and popular- actually took the time to talk to her loser, unpopular self. Sometimes, she even caught herself following Grace around like a lost puppy, but the senior actually didn't seem to mind, and soon became one of her best- and only- friends, a willing and caring being, and always ready with a "God loves you, no matter what."

Grace was genuine, caring about Sicily no matter what anyone else said or thought, she wasn't a poser like the girls that would be honey sweet to her face, but made fun of her behind her back.

She leaned back into the beanbag and listened to the noises of the house around her. Somewhere downstairs, Carley was singing something that sounded something like Martina McBride's "Concrete Angel", but she didn't know all the , and she felt like the song was appropriate. She began to sing softly.

_She walks to school with the lunch she packed_  
><em>Nobody knows what she's holding back<em>  
><em>Wearing the same dress she wore yesterday<em>  
><em>She hides the bruises with the linen and lace, oh<em>

_The teacher wonders but she doesn't ask_  
><em>It's hard to see the pain behind the mask<em>  
><em>Bearing the burden of a secret storm<em>  
><em>Sometimes she wishes she was never born<em>

_Through the wind and the rain she stands hard as a stone_  
><em>In a world that she can't rise above<em>  
><em>But her dreams give her wings and she flies to a place<em>  
><em>Where she's loved concrete angel<em>

_Somebody cries in the middle of the night_  
><em>The neighbors hear but they turn out the light<em>  
><em>A fragile soul caught in the hands of fate<em>  
><em>When morning comes it will be too late<em>

_Through the wind and the rain she stands hard as a stone_  
><em>In a world that she can't rise above<em>  
><em>But her dreams give her wings and she flies to a place<em>  
><em>Where she's loved concrete, angel<em>

_A statue stands in a shaded place_  
><em>An angel girl with an upturned face<em>  
><em>A name is written on a polished rock<em>  
><em>A broken heart that the world forgot<em>

_Through the wind and the rain she stands hard as a stone_  
><em>In a world that she can't rise above<em>  
><em>But her dreams give her wings and she flies to a place<em>  
><em>Where she's loved concrete angel<em>

Her cell rang in her back pocket just then, its ring shrill and loud in the silence that fell as her song ended. When she looked at the caller ID, she saw that it was Grace, the very person that she was thinking about.

"Hi, Grace," she answered.

"Hey, girl!" was the greeting that she received back. "How are you?"

"I'm good," she lied, but thee lie must have been evident in her voice because Grace's next words were:

"Don't lie. I can tell when you are, you're not as good at it as you think you are. Spill."

There was silence on the other end as she waited forSicilyto talk, and she would stay on the phone until she did.

"Here's a hint: bullies."

"That's not really a hint. Who was it and what did they do?' Silence was her only answer. "SicilyMarie Jamison-"

"My middle name's not Marie. It's Christine."

"Fine. Sicily Christine Jamison, do I need to come over and have a girl talk?" This time, she only heard sniffles asSicilytried not to cry.

"Yes," was all she said.

"Be there in five. Do you want me to stay on the phone?"

"No."

"Okay. Don't do anything stupid before I get there, okay?" No answer. "Okay,Sicily?"

"Okay." They hung up, and she went in search of Carley, who she found playing with dolls in her room.

"Carley, Grace is going to be here in a few minutes; could you let her in and bring her up to my room?"

"M'kay."

What she was planning defiantly broke her promise to Grace.


End file.
